My Side of the Story
by Mingsmommy
Summary: If he'd been on the landing, or even, maybe, the second step from the top, if it would have made a difference? If things would have turned out differently? Rating has increased to M. Now complete.
1. Chapter 1

**Spoilers:** Oh, let's say everything through the current season. Except this past week's episode. Forget you saw that.  
**Author's Notes:** I actually started, then abandoned this story last summer. I picked it back up at the beginning of the year and finished it last week. Think of her place in _In Name & Blood_.

I am grateful to **smittywing** for cheerleading and talking me over some hard parts, listening to me vent and telling me what was missing. Many, many thanks to **smacky30** for the beta. And the cheerleading. And the general awesomeness. This wouldn't be here without her.

* * *

He's coming up from the wine cellar in the basement when he hears his cell phone ringing in the kitchen. Later, he'll replay the moment repeatedly in his mind's eye, see himself as though he's watching a movie, and he'll note he's on the fourth step from the top. iFour steps,/i he'll think and wonder on an endless loop. If he'd been on the landing, or even, maybe, the second step from the top, if it would have made a difference? If things would have turned out differently?

But right here, right now, he's on the fourth step from the top when he hears the ring. "Crap," he huffs, bolting for the kitchen and the counter where he'd laid his phone when he got home. He grabs for it just as the last ring fades and the display informs him he has one missed call. He puts down the bottle of wine he brought up and flips the phone open. Seeing it was a call from Emily, he dials her back immediately, but it goes straight to voicemail. Making a frustrated noise, he snaps the phone closed again, only to be alerted to a message.

"Hey..." He can't help the smile that touches his lips at the sound of her voice. "Hi...it's me...um, Emily." He loves how awkward she is, though it hurts him a little to think that after all this time she's not sure enough to know he'd know her voice. "I just wanted...something's come up, and I'm going to be a little later than I thought." Her voice lowers. "I hope I won't be long. I'll see you when I get there." There's a slight pause, then, "Bye."

"Damnit," he growls, tossing the phone back on the counter.

They'd made it in from twelve days of chasing a particularly nasty sexual sadist in Chicago early that afternoon. They'd all made a show of working on paperwork, but it was clear no one's heart was in it after such a grueling case in the Midwest. Hotch had told everyone to hit the door at five sharp with wishes for a good weekend, and Emily promised to meet Dave at his house after a quick trip home. For the last twelve days Dave has been looking forward to wrapping his arms around her, letting her hair stream through his fingers, pressing his face against her neck, and he's impatient with any further delay.

He pouts at the phone for awhile, then opens the wine and pours himself a healthy glass. Then he putters around the kitchen, chopping vegetables and pulling out ingredients, ready to make omelets once Emily arrives. It doesn't take long, so he pours himself a second glass of wine and contemplates what to do to pass the time. He's not in the mood for television, so he grabs the galley of his latest book, sits down in his chair in the great room and begins reading.

He wakes with a start, his heart is racing, and the house is too quiet. It's 2:14 am, he's still in his chair and he's alone. The kitchen is just as he left it, mushrooms, cheese, green peppers and onions all sitting in the counter in prep bowls, omelet pan at the ready, wine bottle corked with a second never touched glass beside it.

He _feels_ like the only one in the house, but he makes himself check, taking the stairs two at a time up to the bedroom. The upstairs is dark, the master bedroom empty, king size bed neatly made just as it had been when he'd dropped his bag several hours ago. Racing back down the stairs he tells himself he fell asleep and missed her call telling him she was too tired to drive or whatever came up held her up too long to come over, but he knows he would have heard the phone.

His cell phone shows no missed calls, her Prius isn't in its place in his garage, nor is it in the driveway he notes as he calls her. Two rings and it rolls to voicemail.

"Emily. It's Dave. Call me. I'm worried."

He snaps the phone closed, grabs his keys and heads for his car.

Dave nearly wilts with relief when he sees her car in its usual spot in front of her brownstone; at least he can mark auto accident off the list of terrors and tragedies currently rolling through his mind like the credits at the end of a summer blockbuster. He's also fairly happy to see lights on in several of her windows. _Probably fell asleep, just like I did,_ he thinks. He almost has himself convinced, except he knows she wouldn't sleep through her phone ringing any more than he would.

The knob is locked, but that's the default position whether she's home or away. The door pushes open as he turns the key in the knob, and he frowns. The deadbolt isn't locked, and that's not normal. Emily isn't fanatical, but she is careful, and the deadbolt is locked every time she leaves, at night when they're getting ready for bed and any time she's home alone.

There's no noise as he eases the door open, and he curses himself for leaving home so quickly and not getting his gun. "Em?" He calls cautiously. "Emily?" He eases himself into the hall and listens carefully. There's no answering call, no sound of movement, only the same quiet, the same stillness he'd felt at his house. Still, he doesn't know what's going on, and until he does, he's going to be careful. He can't help the racing of his heart or the acid roiling in his stomach, but being an FBI agent is so much a part of who he is that the switch from lover to agent is automatic.

It's not a big place, and the downstairs is easy to clear, though he notes her purse and keys on the breakfast bar with her phone beside them. In less than a minute Dave's pressed against the wall of the stairwell, calling out again, "Emily?" even though he's fairly sure he won't be receiving an answer.

The door at the top of the stairs is open, and the room beyond dark. The upstairs is basically one large bedroom with an adjoining bathroom, and Emily only closes the door when she's sleeping. When he's at the top of the stairs, he reaches through the door and flips on the overhead fixture, trying not to blink at the sudden, harsh burst of light. The bedroom is empty, as is the closet and the bathroom beyond. Her go-bag is unzipped, sitting on the brocade bench at the foot of her bed, several pieces of dirty laundry rolled up beside it. Her gun-safe is locked, so he pulls the key from the nightstand in the same drawer she'd kept the condoms when they'd first started sleeping together ("All of my safety devices in this drawer," she'd joked). Now, she's on the pill and the drawer holds a satin blindfold and a soft feathery _thing_ she'd used to drive him insane once when she'd gotten him to agree to the blindfold and keeping his hands to himself. He picks up the key to the gun-safe and pauses when he sees his own handwriting on a piece of paper beneath. He picks it up, heart clenching a little when he recognizes it as the note he'd left the morning after their first night together. _Emily _he'd written, _Don't panic. I've gone on a coffee run. You got your Masters specifically to be able to operate that futuristic coffee maker, didn't you? I've stolen your keys so you can't go anywhere (and to let myself back in). So, don't go anywhere. We'll talk. Or not. Dave._ He'd returned with coffee and cinnamon rolls, and they'd stayed in bed all day. And though they'd done very little talking that day, they'd been together since.

Despite the circumstances, Dave feels a rush of fondness over the memory. Tenderly, he replaces the note and unlocks the gun-safe to find her service weapon inside. He scrubs a hand down his face. "Where are you?" He hears the frustration and worry in his voice and makes himself take a calming breath. Neither anger nor panic is going to help in this situation.

It's out of character for Emily, and he can't, at this moment, think of a reasonable or rational explanation. More than that, he_ knows_ something is wrong, but that won't be enough to convince anyone.

Stepping back, he makes himself take a look around, makes himself look with the eyes of an FBI agent. The only sign Emily had even been upstairs since she got home was the partially unpacked go-bag. He pictures her standing at the bench, pulling out the bag's contents, hair falling across her face. Why would she stop in the middle of unpacking? She said on the voicemail something had come up; she could have continued sorting through a phone call. A visitor then. If the doorbell rang, she'd head downstairs, turning the light off in the bedroom as she went. Dave does the same.

Walking to the front door, he stands, thinking. None of the locks show any sign of tampering or stress. "You let them in." Memories assail him; of being here with Emily, especially in the beginning, when they'd just been friends, from when they'd been more, but not enough that he had a key yet. He watches these scenes as if from a distance, letting time and his professional filter force the details to the surface.

He sees her standing in the hall, sees her close the door after he's walked in, sees her turn the deadbolt.

He remembers crowding her up against the door the first few times they'd slept together or, well, almost any time when he hadn't been able to touch her for a while, but in his memory the deadbolt always turns. In a hundred recollections, she moves down the hall to the main part of her place. Kitchen, breakfast bar, living room. He walks into the kitchen, eyes sweeping the counter-tops, looking with cop eyes, with profiler eyes, looking for some clue, something different. It's not until he reaches the far corner of the island that he hears the first crunch of glass under his shoe.

Freezing, he looks down, carefully lifting his foot.

It's a glass; one of Emily's drinking glasses, shattered in a puddle of water.

He reaches for his phone as he squats to study the shards. It would probably take anyone else in the world until the second or third ring to answer at three a.m., but after the first ring he hears, crisp and aware, "Hotchner."

"Aaron, it's Dave. Something—" His throat is suddenly thick, and he's aware his heart is beating way too fast. He swallows heavily. "Something's happened to Emily."

Hotch, thank God, doesn't ask questions on the phone, other than "Where are you?" He tells Dave not to touch anything and says he'll be there in forty-five minutes.

It's actually closer to thirty, and Dave's pretty damn grateful, because it's hard to stay in agent mode when there's so little to go on. His first urge, of course, is to tear the place apart looking for something, _anything_, that might give him a clue to where she is. But he knows, given the state he's in, that he's not seeing anything objectively, and he could miss something. So, after one last look around, he makes himself wait outside her door.

When Hotch gets there, in jeans and a pullover, he says, "Walk me through it."

Dave doesn't bother with a history; Hotch can figure it out, if he didn't already know. "She was supposed to come over, but she called and said something had come up and she'd be late. I fell asleep and when I woke up it was after two, and she wasn't there." He takes a shaky breath. He'd known from the first moment he woke something was wrong, and he wishes he'd been over-reacting. "She didn't answer her phone, so I came over. Her car's here, her phone and purse are here, but she's not." He runs a hand through his hair, thinking what else might be relevant. "Her gun is in the gun-safe and there's a broken glass on the kitchen floor."

"Did you ask any questions about what had come up?" Hotch's face is in its usual stoic expression, except his eyebrows seem more tightly drawn; the vertical lines that bracket the bridge of his nose seem deeper.

Dave shakes his head at himself; it's the kind of detail a witness would leave out. He pulls out his phone and dials his voicemail. "I didn't talk to her. I missed the call, but she left a message."

Silently, Hotch holds out his hand, and Dave gives him the phone. He watches as Hotch listens, and though his facial expression doesn't change, Dave can _feel_ his worry.

When he hands Dave's phone back he nods toward Emily's door. "Show me." He doesn't comment when Dave uses his key, just follows him in and looks around.

Dave is unprepared for the sudden roll of anxiety through his stomach, the pinch of fear in the center of his chest as he watches Hotch look at the glass on the floor and push the buttons of her cellphone with a pen. "One missed call."

"Me. I called her when I woke up and realized she wasn't home." The use of the word is unconscious, and he only realizes he's used it when Hotch blinks. He wonders how Hotch would feel knowing it's accurate. She spends eight out of ten nights at his house when they're not on the road. And when she's not there, he's here.

When Hotch presses the button to _View missed call_ and sees _Rossi_, he nods. "Any ideas?"

Wondering if his fear is evident in his expression, Dave shakes his head. "None."

"We'll have to report it." Hotch pinches his lower lip thoughtfully. "We can report through the police and hope for some professional courtesy as far as how quickly they'll open a file on it; it really depends on which detective we draw. If we go through the Bureau it'll be a priority, but they won't let our unit work the case." He levels a look at Dave. "Plus, there may be some professional consequences regarding any personal relationship you and Prentiss may or may not have."

"I don't give a fuck about consequences, professional or otherwise." Dave can hear the frayed edge of panic touching his words and makes himself stop and take a breath. "I just want to find her."

Nodding, Hotch lightly touches his shoulder. "I understand that, Dave. But would Emily feel the same way?"

Incredulous, Dave looks at him. "What?"

Hotch gestures around the room. "Say an old friend stopped by, and Emily cut herself on a glass getting the friend some water." Dave starts to protest, but Hotch holds up a hand. "The friend takes Emily to the emergency room for stitches. The ER is backed up, and it takes hours. Then Emily can't take what they gave her for pain on an empty stomach, so they go to a 24 hour place for a burger. How is Emily going to feel when she comes home to find another unit going over her place with a fine tooth comb? Not to mention that Kevin Lynch has broken down her finances for the last five years along with drawing up a list of all known associates for the past ten, and Erin Strauss will be transferring her to Organized Crime on Monday because the two of you chose to ignore the Bureau's fraternization policy."

It's only the thought of possibly be obscuring evidence that keeps Dave from punching the closest wall. "Fuck." He braces his arms against the granite countertop.

"Dave," Hotch says, a warning in his tone.

"My prints are all over the place, Aaron. Another set isn't going to make a difference. They're on the front door; they're on the shower wall. You'll find my toothbrush in the bathroom and my DNA on the sheets. A quarter of my clothes are here." He makes a fist and smacks it against the counter hard enough to send a jolt up through his elbow into his shoulder. "The thing that's not here is Emily, and I need to find her." He pushes away from the counter, frustration and anxiety balling in the center of his chest. "It's all wrong. There's something wrong."

His face softening slightly, Hotch looks down at her purse and phone. "You're right, it does feel off. But-"

Throwing up his hands, Dave growls. "I know! I know! There could still be a logical explanation." He closes his eyes in frustration. "But I can't just stand here and do nothing." He opens his eyes and meets Hotch's gaze. "She's in trouble, Aaron. I know it."

Hotch looks at his watch. "It's almost four; we can probably push this on our own until nine, maybe ten. I'll call Morgan and Reid, you call Garcia. Let's see what we can find before we have to report it."

It's not an answer. It's nowhere near a solution. But it's a step, it's action, it's _something_, and Dave feels a small easing of the apprehension sitting like a brick in the middle of his chest. "Thank you, Aaron."

His phone already pressed to his ear, Hotch gives a grim nod. "Let's find her."

Two hours later. and it's almost like a typical roundtable, except Emily's not there to throw out her ideas and the table is her coffee table in her living room. Morgan and Reid had shown up within forty minutes of Hotch making the call. and they'd started from the beginning; walking through her home, examining the locks, studying the shattered glass, looking for signs of forced entry, looking for traces of blood.

On screen, Garcia, never known for her poker face, is wearing the same expression of worry Dave had seen her wearing shortly before Haley Hotchner's death. The comparison is not at all comforting, though Dave knows no matter how Garcia feels it's not going to stop her from doing the best she can. In the case of the rest of the team, dispassion seems to help them do their jobs better, but in Garcia's case he thinks passion might drive her harder. Still, passionate or dispassionate, this team is the one he trusts the most to find Emily.

"None of the hospitals have Emily registered, and no one matching her description has shown up as a Jane Doe, either." Garcia's hair is down and she's wearing a Stanford sweatshirt, but those are her only concessions to being pulled out of bed in the wee hours of a Saturday morning. She's fully made-up: lipstick, eyeliner and eye shadow perfectly applied as usual.

Hotch doesn't want to ask and neither does Reid. Dave won't ask, won't even think about asking. So it's Morgan who, voice subdued, poses the question Penelope hasn't thought of, and the rest of them don't want to contemplate. "Have you tried the morgue?"

The sound of her gasp through the laptop's speakers cuts through Dave, and he refuses to meet anyone's eyes. "No, God, no, I haven't checked the morgue." Garcia's tone is horrified. She takes a deep breath and begins speaking, her voice gaining strength and speed with every word. "And I'm not going to because Emily is _not_ dead. Emily is...is...she's somewhere, and we have to find her. We are going to find her. But she is not dead. Do you understand me? Not. Dead."

Morgan looks pained, but he nods. However, Dave knows as soon as they end this call he will, with Hotch's unspoken blessing, slip outside, away from Dave, away from Reid, and call the morgue.

In the meantime, Hotch attempts to get Garcia back on task. "Of course she's not, Garcia." His voice is softer than they're used to, the same one Dave has heard him use with victim's family members, and there's a lesser part of Dave that sort of wants to punch him. _Emily_, he wants to say,_ is not a victim._ But he knows Hotch is just offering comfort and trying to remind Garcia they need her help. "It's one of the first places the police will check; just to check it off the list."

Garcia takes a shaky breath then continues as if neither Hotch nor Morgan had spoken. "There's been no credit card activity since you left Chicago." They hear clicking, and even though the keyboard is out of sight, it's obvious Garcia is typing full speed. "I'm currently running a search on any cases Emily worked where the suspect is not in prison. I should have a complete list in a few minutes."

Reid jumps in. "We can probably eliminate quite a few of those if Emily didn't have significant contact with the suspect."

"Way ahead of you, Boy Wonder." Garcia briefly slides out of the frame, and then back in, holding up a sheaf of papers. "The list is currently being compiled by her participation based on the size of her report."

"Very good, Garcia." Hotch nods. "Reid, you and Morgan go back to the BAU and start looking at the files. Look at ones where Prentiss was a primary or had some contact with the unsub or even had a connection with one of the victims." He turns back to the screen. "Have you had any luck locating Ambassador Prentiss?"

"She's actually in the states," Garcia says, obviously glad to be able to give any sort of good news. "She's in New York and she's scheduled to speak at the United Nations on Monday."

"Can you get me a number for her, Garcia?" The worry lines on Hotch's face have not lessened, but they all seem to be less anxious with something to do.

"Sending it to your phone now," Garcia nods, typing.

"All right." His phone beeps with the incoming message. "Keep digging on the case files. Morgan and Reid will be there shortly, and I won't be far behind."

"Got it," she nods and her image blacks out.

"It doesn't make any sense," Morgan growls. "Emily isn't going to open her door and let someone she knows is a serial killer or a rapist into her home."

"There's no emotional distress in her voice on the voice mail," Reid says thoughtfully. "If it was someone she was afraid of she'd have sounded...she wouldn't have sounded so normal. Of course, if it was someone from a case, they wouldn't have let her use the phone."

"Who would she let in?" Hotch is looking at Dave.

"JJ. Garcia. Her mother." He names people he knows have been here since they've been seeing each other. "She has a few friends outside of work...but she usually meets them out for dinner or drinks."

"What if someone came to the door and said they needed her help? A kid or a single woman? Someone that appeared vulnerable?" Morgan runs a hand over his head, and Dave has an odd thought about five o'clock shadow. "Emily would want to help."

Reid shakes his head. "If someone were in immediate danger, she would help, but she wouldn't take time out to make a phone call. If they weren't in immediate danger, if she didn't know them, she wouldn't let them in."

Hotch looks at Dave, his usual gravitas present, but there's something else, too: wariness, caution.

"Whatever it is spit it out, Aaron." He doesn't mean to sound quite so impatient, but every minute that ticks by without Emily walking through her front door and asking what the Hell is going on it's becoming more and more obvious that the _some other explanation_ theory is falling by the wayside. Someone has taken her. Knowing the kind of people they deal with, knowing the kind of things those people are capable of, knowing one of them may have Emily, makes him sick.

"You'll be a suspect." The statement is as bald as Morgan.

Dave keeps his face from reflecting the flash of anger that flares in his stomach. He simply nods. "I know."

Morgan looks at him, assessing his demeanor, cataloging his expression as he asks. "Could she be seeing someone else?"

Dave almost wants to laugh. "No."

"You seem awfully certain." Dave recognizes Morgan's tone; he's trying to wind him up, to get him to snap, to get him to reveal some hidden emotion, some secret.

Wearily, Dave rubs his eyes then looks at Morgan. "I get that it must piss you off that two of your colleagues have been having a relationship under your nose when you are one of the Bureau's top profilers. I get that your ego is wounded that you didn't see it and maybe your feelings are hurt that we didn't trust you-" He looks at Hotch and Reid, who won't meet his eyes. "-Any of you enough to let you know we were seeing each other. But it wasn't about trust, or even really about privacy. It was about keeping work and home as separate as we possibly could, for as long as we possibly could."

"Rossi-" Morgan starts, but Dave holds up a hand. He can't lose his temper, he needs to remember he needs them; he needs to remember they care about Emily too.

"We're profilers, too. We know what you're looking for, we know what to hide. So, yeah, I get your pride is stinging." Dave takes a deep breath. "But don't forget for one minute, just because you didn't know this doesn't mean you don't know us. For all the times we've declared we don't profile each other, it's all we do. We know which cases are going to hit each of us the hardest, and we know why."

He leans back and looks Morgan straight in the eye, not holding anything back, not hiding anything. "Emily would not cheat. You know that." He tries to make his voice firm without making it aggressive. "We are in a serious, committed relationship." There's a small voice inside his head that questions the use of the word "committed". They are exclusive, certainly, but they haven't talked about commitment. He's not a fool; he's aware of Emily's age and her desire to have a family. He's pretty sure neither of them started this with an eye towards the future, but as time went on it became more than sex, more than stress relief. It became a relationship. Selfishly, he's been enjoying that without addressing the harder questions. "I would never hurt her. And you know that, too."

Morgan looks an odd combination of frustrated and chastised, but he nods as he stands. "Yeah, I do."

He and Reid leave for Quantico, leaving Hotch and Dave sitting in Emily's living room, a thick silence settling between them.

If Hotch wants to play poker he's welcome to, but Dave has more important things to do. "We've been together about a year and a half." Unthinking, he runs the edge of his boot against the leg of Emily's coffee table. He doesn't say how they'd gotten even closer in the days after George Foyet attacked Hotch, how the nights spent working together to keep up with Hotch's paperwork and brainstorming how to get Foyet had turned in to sharing dinner and that had eventually turned in to sharing a bed and that, in turn, turned in to sharing a life.

"I've occasionally had suspicions," Hotch confirms. Dave quirks an eyebrow at him, but he just shakes his head. "It was easier not to deal with it. If either of you ever looked like it was impacting your performance I would have asked some questions."

"Where is she, Aaron?" Even he can hear the anguish in his voice.

"I don't know, Dave. I don't know." Leaning forward, Hotch rests his elbows on his knees hands clasped loosely between his legs. "I think we need to contact her mother and see if she's heard from Emily."

Dave almost wants to object, to say that Emily would call him before she'd call her mother, but since he is completely in the dark, and far from dispassionate, he knows he needs to let Hotch call the shots. While Hotch can't be completely objective, he's far closer than Dave is. For what may be the thousandth time since he'd awakened alone in his chair, Dave offers a prayer, this one a promise to the Almighty that if he gets Emily back safe, he will be far more compassionate and understanding to victims' families.

He nods at Hotch. "Yeah, you should call her."

Looking doubtful for just a moment, Hotch contemplates the phone in his hand. "Would you...do you think the Ambassador would rather hear from you?"

Scrubbing his hand down his face, Dave shakes his head. "We haven't met."

Eyebrows raised slightly, Hotch looks at him as if to say, _Eighteen months and you haven't met her mother?_

"Between the Ambassador's posting and my book tours, we haven't been in town at the same time." It sounds lame, even to him. The truth is neither he nor Emily have pushed meeting each others' families. In his case, he's absolutely sure the Ambassador will find him objectionable, and he's been loathe to introduce iyour mother can't stand me/i conflict into the relationship. Emily, for her part, hasn't made any noises about him meeting her parents or wanting to meet his family. He frowns and wonders why. The same niggling voice asks him why, if they weren't planning on a more permanent arrangement, she would introduce him to her mother? Why would she meet his family?

Hotch checks the time and Dave does the same; it's just after six, too early for a phone call to be anything but alarming, but it is necessary. Dave watches him dial and wills Emily to somehow be in her mother's company.

"Ambassador Prentiss? This is Aaron Hotchner. I apologize for the hour." There's a pause and Hotch's mouth tightens a little more. "Actually, I was hoping you could shed some light on that for me."

It's a torturous ten minutes listening to the one sided conversation. It's obvious the Ambassador hasn't heard from Emily, and it's equally evident she wants to know what the Hell is going on.

By the time Hotch ends the call, Dave is aware of two things: he will very shortly be meeting Emily's mother and it's time to call in help. "Do you want to call Strauss or do you want me to?"

There's the smallest flicker of surprise across Hotch's features before he answers, "I'll do it."

At this point, Dave really doesn't care about his career. When Emily is back safe and sound, he'll gladly resign or re-retire so she doesn't have to leave the BAU, but he's also aware Hotch is going to be held accountable as well. Hopefully, just a slap on the wrist, but if it's worse, well, Dave will figure that out if it happens. He's aware they could minimize political ramifications for everyone if they just stopped seeing each other, but that's not an option, not as far as he's concerned. He's pretty sure Emily will feel the same way, but he really doesn't have time to think about that right now.

Right now, all that matters is Emily and getting her back.

"Chief Strauss? Aaron Hotchner. Yes, ma'am, I apologize, but we have a situation."

"How can you be sure she isn't seeing someone else?" Tom Donoghue is a good agent and a good guy, but he's out of his depth right now, Dave thinks. He can't seem to decide if he's interviewing or interrogating Dave, and they are getting absolutely nowhere. Only the fact that Dave is sure Hotch is on the other side of the glass is allowing him to retain any semblance of patience.

It is the nicest of the interview rooms, and he's got both a cup of coffee and a bottle of water in front of him, so it's not a real grilling. But it's also not in one of the conference rooms or somebody's office, either.

"Look, Tom." Dave rubs the heels of his hands against his eyes and says a prayer for Emily and that he retain what grip on common sense he has left. "I understand any time someone goes missing their significant other is the number one suspect." He moves his hands down to the table and interlaces his fingers. "I also know if I don't cooperate with every possible question you can come up with, it will look suspicious. Now," Dave looks up, makes sure he has eye contact and Agent Donoghue's full attention. "I don't give a rat's ass if you think I'm a suspect or that I'm behaving suspiciously. But I know that if you have any suspicions about me regarding why Emily Prentiss is missing, it will direct manpower and resources away from other avenues and I don't want that, because I need for her to be found, sooner rather than later."

He lifts his hands slowly. "I am reaching in to my pocket, okay?" His voice is so slow and cautious that he knows it's bordering on sarcastic, but he doesn't want any misunderstandings. Tom Donoghue nods and Dave reaches into his pocket, pulls out his keys and holds them up, one at a time. "This is my house key; I don't think I set the alarm when I left but if I did the code is 1012. This is the key to the truck. It's in the garage at home. This is the key to the Jag; it's in my usual space in the parking garage. Have a forensics team go over everything with a fine tooth comb. You will find evidence of Emily, but you won't find any evidence of foul play. Go ahead and get it done so you can rule me out as a suspect."

Mouth slightly agape, Donoghue is looking at the ring of keys as Dave continues. "And go on and ask whatever questions you need to, but maybe ask yourself a few. Like, if I'm the one that took Emily. or did her some harm, why would I report her missing less than ten hours after she was seen by no less than three dozen Federal agents? Why wouldn't I take the weekend to cover my tracks when the soonest someone, other than me, is going to miss Emily is Monday."

Donoghue clears his throat. "Look, Agent Rossi, I-"

Dave holds up his hand again and shakes his head. "Tom, I get it. I know you're doing your job. But please, God, please, tell me you're the only one wasting time on me." Scrubbing a hand down his face, he sighs. "Please tell me there are a dozen other agents out there looking for her while they're making you do this dog and pony show."

The door opens then and Assistant Director Paulson enters the room. "You can go, Agent Donoghue."

John Paulson seats himself across from Dave, maintaining eye contact for the few minutes it takes Tom Donoghue to gather his things and leave. At the click of the door, Paulson speaks. "This is bad business, Dave. We've got an agent who is also the daughter of a United States Ambassador missing."

Knowing full well the show of privacy is just that, a show, Dave wonders how many people are on the other side of the glass at this point. "John, I know how bad this is, more than any of you." He doesn't know what pain or fear is in his face that makes the A.D. look away, but he knows what he's feeling: pained, frightened, out of control.

"Is there anything you can think of that might help us locate Emily Prentiss?"

Wanting to scream something obscene about how he would have already fucking told them if he did, Dave just shakes his head. "I've told you everything I can think of."

Paulson nods. "At this point, we're thinking it's either something from an old case or possibly someone trying to get to the Ambassador."

Dave feels the knot in the middle of his chest tighten. He hadn't even considered political intrigue.

Taking a deep breath, he blinks away a sudden wave of nausea.

The A.D. doesn't seem to notice as he continues. "I've got the State Department all over my ass, the Ambassador just arrived, the NSA is on their way over, and I just had my ass handed to me by the Secretary of State." Finally, seeming to notice the lack of response from Dave, Paulson looks over, and his expression turns regretful. "And I'm guessing you really don't give a flying fuck where my ass is or who handed it to me last."

Slowly, Dave shakes his head and reaches for the water bottle in front of him. "Not really, no." He takes a long pull from the water bottle

"For what it's worth, I'm sorry." Paulson leans back in his chair.

Dave shrugs and begins worrying the loosened corner of the water bottle's label. "I just want to find her." He swallows heavily. "I want to know she's safe."

"I understand." Paulson's tone is sympathetic. "I think that's what everyone wants."

It's hard not to contemplate quantifying want, useless to even consider it. But Dave knows no matter who wants Emily found safely, he wants it more, with the possible exception of her mother, and he's not so sure his need to know Emily is alive and safe isn't greater even than hers.

_Does Emily know?_ he asks himself. Is there any way Emily could even fathom the depth of his feeling for her?

The A.D. clears his throat. "The Ambassador would like to see you."

Taking in a shaky breath, Dave nods. "Yeah." He stands, tolerates the comforting hand on his shoulder with something like equanimity then heads upstairs.

His assumption is the Ambassador will be ensconced in Hotch's office or monitoring everything from the round table in the conference room. Instead, when he pushes through the glass doors of the unit, he sees a dark head at Emily's desk, and his heart stops, then stutters into thunder before he realizes Elizabeth Prentiss is sitting in Emily's chair, palms splayed across the desk's surface. "I never understood why she wanted to join the FBI at all, much less join the BAU." She hasn't looked up, though she is obviously aware of his approach.

The bullpen is mostly deserted. At least the desk part of the job is nine to five, even if the rest of it is twenty-four seven. Reid and Morgan are, no doubt, either in the conference room or in Garcia's lair. The team officially assigned to Emily's case is from Missing Persons, two floors down. The energy of the room feels different; slower, darker, sadder. It's different even from the feel of the empty early morning when there is a feeling of anticipation and expectation. Now there is the feeling as if what was to happen is over, opportunities overlooked, chances missed.

"I've never asked her," he answers quietly.

"We'll have to do that, then." Elizabeth turns Emily's desk chair so she's facing him. She looks the way he's always seen her, on the news or in photographs: elegant, composed, poised. But he thinks it wouldn't take a profiler to see the tension riding across her shoulders, or the way worry has tightened her mouth. "When she gets back the two of you must come to dinner, and she will have to tell us both why she chose the FBI."

Despite his own tension and worry, Dave feels the pinched muscles between his brows relax a little. "I'll look forward to it." He sees Emily do the same thing so often, pretend things are fine when the world is falling apart, try to find something good, something to look forward to when everything around her has gone to Hell.

The Ambassador stands, extending her hand. "Elizabeth Prentiss."

"David Rossi."

He has the odd urge to kiss her hand instead of shake it, but of course he doesn't. Her grip is firm and sure, her gaze is frankly assessing.

"Are you merely sleeping with my daughter or does it go deeper than that?"

Obviously the Ambassador doesn't deal with everything with diplomacy. He's heard Emily talk about her mother's professional style being iron fist in a velvet glove, and that's obviously what he's getting, sans velvet, sans glove and this fist goes straight to his solar plexus.

If she'd asked the question any other day, he might have bristled or bitten back, but today his pride doesn't matter anymore than the Ambassador's lack of diplomacy. So, he answers the question as baldly as she'd asked it. "She is the most important thing in my life."

Elizabeth Prentiss studies his face intently for a moment, as though she's cataloging everything from the lines on his forehead to the fear he knows is in his eyes. What she sees must be enough, because she nods and puts her hand on his arm. "Mine, as well."

TBC..


	2. Chapter 2

**Spoilers:** Oh, let's say everything through the current season. Except this past week's episode. Forget you saw that.  
**Author's Notes:** I actually started, then abandoned this story last summer. I picked it back up at the beginning of the year and finished it last week. I am grateful to **smittywing** for cheerleading and talking me over some hard parts, listening to me vent and telling me what was missing. Many, many thanks to **smacky30** for the beta. And the cheerleading. And the general awesomeness. This wouldn't be here without her.

* * *

By noon they've eliminated the majority of the perpetrators from the cases since Emily's been at the BAU. Most of them are either dead or in prison; the few that are free are either accounted for or have an alibi.

Garcia, looking very close to tears, asks, "What do we do now?"

Hotch answers, "Start over."

Around two, the head of the forensics detail going over Emily's place reports a small smear of blood on the underside of the front door knob. Tests show it's A negative, Emily's type.

"It isn't enough to cause a great deal of worry," the team leader assures Hotch. "Could be something as simple as a paper cut. But it isn't very old."

They worry anyway.

* * *

Several security agents from the State Department grill Dave in a downstairs conference room for about three hours in the afternoon, but he's confident he's not a suspect. They're just trying to figure out if anything is out of the ordinary, if Emily could have been being watched by someone without either of them knowing.

They've received no ransom demands, either for money or political gain, but it still doesn't rule out political terrorism.

Dave doesn't know why, but the idea of that feels wrong to him. Even as little as they have to go on, this feels personal.

When the guys from the State Department let him go, he finds JJ in the conference room with the rest of the team and Ambassador Prentiss sorting through folders. Evidently, when the agents from Missing Persons had shown up at JJ's door, and she discovered Emily was missing, she grabbed a ride back to the BAU with them.

She hugs him, and he feels a slight quiver in her small frame. While he's grateful for the warmth (both physical and emotional) he wants to tell her, to _beg_ her, not to cry.

The worry was for nothing, of course, because when she pulls back her eyes are moist, but there are no real tears.

From what he gathers, they've all spent a little time in the company of the gentlemen from the State Department. "Feels like they're grasping at straws," Morgan says, not looking up from his perusal of the file on Karl Arnold and the transcript of his interview with Hotch and Emily.

Dave doesn't think they're the only ones.

* * *

It's after eight when Morgan goes for take-out, and there are four stacks of files on the table: perpetrator deceased or incarcerated with no family or friends likely to seek revenge, perpetrator deceased or incarcerated with possible ties looking for revenge, perpetrator unknown/crime unsolved, and cases where Emily has offered a consult or expert testimony.

They've been through all of them, but they keep going back, looking for something, _anything_ that might lead them to Emily.

"You didn't eat anything." Elizabeth Prentiss's voice is pitched low, a concession to Reid's slumped form on the other side of the table. Rossi knows Reid will likely wake in a couple of hours, refreshed from his nap but needing to work the kinks out of his back after sleeping in that position.

It's well after midnight, and JJ's gone home with a promise to be back in the morning, Hotch is following up with a detective from a case a couple of years ago in northern California, Garcia is in her lair searching for red flags from Emily's cases before she came to the BAU. Dave has no idea where Morgan's got to, but if he had to guess, from the look of frustration on Derek's face after the last dead-end, he'd say the gym or the closest punching bag.

Dave looks at her a little disbelievingly. "I'm not hungry."

"Neither am I nor, I imagine, are any of your colleagues." She looks pointedly at the half empty pizza boxes and several opened containers of Chinese food. "But sustenance is necessary if you intend to be of any use in finding Emily, or taking care of her when she's returned to us."

On the verge of barking that she's Emily's mother not his, he stops cold at the quirk of an eyebrow that, either genetic or learned, her daughter does equally as well. Instead, he swallows at the thickness in his throat and mumbles, "Yes, ma'am."

* * *

Reid is awake again, speeding through the files from Emily's time in Chicago, and Hotch has managed to talk the Ambassador into a short nap on a sofa in an empty office when Dave notes the time is 2:17.

It's been twenty-four hours since he awoke alone in his house, over thirty since he last heard from Emily.

It doesn't take an information dump from Reid, or a reminder from Missing Persons for Dave to remember what he learned the first day at the Academy: the majority of kidnapping victims are murdered within twenty-four hours of their abduction.  
He reminds himself that Emily's tough and smart, and if anybody can defy the odds, she can.

"Hang on, Em," he whispers. "Hang on."

* * *

The first story breaks at 6:00 am.

They're not sure if the leak came from someone in Missing Persons or the State Department, but Sunday morning television is buzzing with the news of the apparent kidnapping of the daughter of Ambassador Elizabeth Prentiss.

A small terrorist cell out of Afghanistan claims responsibility around nine-thirty. Just after ten an eco-terrorist group out of British Columbia sends a list of demands to the FBI promising Emily's release if their conditions are met. Neither provides photographic evidence, but Jordan Todd and Craig Windham from Counter-terrorism come in anyway.

* * *

By noon they've completely discounted the Afghani group as too small with too few resources to actually have done more than claim credit for Emily's kidnapping. The BC eco-terrorists aren't as easy to dismiss, but it's clear the agents don't believe they're responsible. Still, the team is good at what they do, and they're not leaving anything to chance.

The Ambassador and Hotch team up to bully Dave into lying down on the same sofa she used overnight. Even though he's sure he won't be able to sleep exhaustion gets the better of him, and he dreams of Emily.

A thousand different images are brought forward from his memories, tinged with the gossamer of dreams: Emily sleeping in bed beside him, sipping wine on the deck, cooking dinner in his kitchen, burning breakfast at her place. The images shift like an ever-turning kaleidoscope and finally coalesce into Emily in a bubble bath, a thousand candles lit around the room, tiny flames bouncing off the mirror. He's never been in this room before, yet he knows this is a bathroom in his own house. He'll have to figure that out later though, because right now he only has eyes for Emily. All damp skin and big eyes, she's laughing, a low, sexy sound, and she flicks water at him. He drinks her in, afraid to touch. She's too beautiful to touch.

Distracted by the rise and fall of the bubbles as she shifts in the tub, he's surprised when he looks back at her, and her nose is bleeding. "Em..." he says, reaching for her, but everything shifts. The candles are gone, butthe light is as bright as a hospital operating room. The bathtub isn't filled with bubbles, it's overflowing with blood, and Emily is gone.

He wakes, gasping.

* * *

It's only been a little over an hour, but it must have been enough to satisfy the others that he's had a little rest because no one comments when he comes back. JJ hands him a coffee from the last Starbuck's run. He accepts it gratefully, clearing his raw throat and asking, "What have we got?" as he takes a seat between Hotch and Garcia.

Morgan scrubs both of his hands down his face. "Nothing, we've got nothing." He doesn't even sound frustrated anymore; he just sounds tired.

They're all tired, Dave knows. They work a lot of late nights. They push themselves. But they always take some time. They break, they rest, and if they're lucky, they sleep. The only time they might not take such an opportunity is working a kidnapping, but usually if they don't find the victim within the first twenty-four hours, they start breaking at night, an unspoken nod to statistics.

Right now, it's been forty-six hours since anyone has heard from Emily, and no one's showing signs of wanting to go home. But when, Dave wonders, will they? At seventy-two hours? Ninety-six? When will Hotch go home to Jack? When will Morgan go home to sleep? When will Garcia search something other than Emily's cases, Emily's contacts?

There's a tremendous pressure in the middle of his chest at the idea of giving up in ninety-six hours or ninety-six days. He suddenly feels the time constraint more keenly than before. Not just the missing person's statistics, but the idea that these people are his best resources, his strength, his best shot at finding her, and he can't squander the time he has before any one of them gives up or moves on to something else. "If we don't have anything new, then let's go back to what we do have. The voice mail, the broken glass."

They're not officially working the case at all. They are just Emily's friends and co-workers gathered in a conference room, waiting on news, which allows JJ and the Ambassador to join them. Still, they've been given access to everything Missing Persons and Counter-Terrorism has. At least for right now, they're all here, they're all working it. They go over it again, from the beginning, only Hotch talks it out for them. "Emily didn't sound distressed in the voice mail. She didn't sound upset, though she did sound..."

"Awkward," Reid supplies. "She sounded like she was in a socially awkward situation, like it was strained, but she didn't sound fearful or even really upset."

Morgan shakes his head. "No code words or clues that anything was wrong. Whatever happened, she didn't know she was in danger when she made the call."

"That fits." JJ is tapping a pencil against a piece of paper, elbows on the table, and it's almost as if she never left. "If there wasn't any evidence that the locks had been forced, then it makes sense it was someone she knows, someone she's not afraid of."

"But not close to," Garcia adds. "I mean, Emily might be...well, with the people she knows, the people she loves she's not awkward or strained."

The Ambassador contributes a surprising and dry, "If only I could second that opinion."

Everyone in the room has an idea about Emily and her mother, and though it's no time for humor, the moment of lightness helps them all, Rossi knows. It's also a reminder that this is _Emily_; they know her, they love her, they all want her back.

"Okay," he says. "Somebody she knows, somebody that's not a threat, but no one she knows well." He looks around the table. "Who?"

"Neighbor?" JJ asks.

"They're all clean, and most of them have alibis." Garcia says, looking at her laptop's screen. "But I'm digging deeper."

"All right." Morgan leans forward. "Who else?"

"All of the people from her daily life; the guy at the dry cleaners, delivery people, the bagger at the grocery store." Reid looks at Rossi. "Could you make a list? Any place she would go on a regular basis."

Rossi rubs his eyes. "That's where it gets complicated. She's been spending more time at my place."

Reid nods. "Different geography, different set of people she would see on a regular basis." He tilts his head in Rossi's direction. "Maybe make two lists? The places she goes or orders from when she's at her place, and the ones she frequents when she's at yours?"

"Yeah, I can do that." It's a little thing but at least it's _something_ to do.

"Are you honestly suggesting someone...a bag boy or a dry cleaning clerk could have done this? Taken Emily?" The Ambassador sounds incredulous.

"Ma'am." Morgan's voice is serious but courteous. "Obsessional crimes aren't limited to any particular type of person or socio-economic group. It could be the pizza delivery guy or an affluent shop owner. They could be generally obsessed, or they may have noticed they see her less frequently and feel as though they're losing her. Maybe it's the bagger at the grocery, and he noticed she bought men's razors, or the Chinese delivery guy saw Dave there one night... They could have been fixated on her for months or years and something simple set them off."

The Ambassador puts a hand to her forehead as though it aches. "It really could be anyone."

"Ambassador Prentiss..."" Hotch starts, but Elizabeth holds out a hand.

"Go on, it's... I'm fine." She takes a deep breath. "What else do we have?"

There's a pause before Reid supplies, "The blood."

JJ makes a dismissive noise, though Dave's not sure if she's really discounting it or if she's trying to minimize it for the Ambassador's sake. "They said it was just a trace. It could have been a drop or two on her finger from a paper cut or a nosebleed."

The word nosebleed brings back the image of Emily in the bathtub in his dream, making him shudder slightly. But it also tickles something in the back of his brain, Emily talking about a nosebleed. Before they were together. She'd told him about walking in the snow, and blood falling on a picture. It takes a minute, but it finally clicks. "Garcia." He doesn't care that he's interrupting a back and forth between JJ, Morgan and Reid about all the possible ways blood could have gotten on the door. "The priest with the Matthew Benton case, have you tracked him?"

"Matthew Benton case?" The Ambassador looks at Rossi, then Hotch. "What case?"

Garcia presses a few keys. "He's still in Italy. He actually hasn't been out of the country since he was deported from the United States."

"Matthew Benton died of natural causes," Elizabeth Prentiss says firmly.

Hotch and Dave share a look, then Hotch speaks. "The ME did determine that Matthew died of a heart attack, but there were circumstances surrounding his death that could be considered...unusual."

The Ambassador, already pale, seems to lose even more color. "What does that have to do with Emily?"

Surprisingly, it's Morgan who answers in a gentle voice. "Emily agreed to look into the case when another friend brought it to her attention. It was off the record, I don't think we ever opened a file on it."

"No, we didn't," Hotch agrees.

"Well?" Elizabeth looks around the room. "What did you find?"

"Matthew did die of a heart attack." Hotch's eyebrows are drawn together, but his tone is calm. "But it appears the heart attack was brought on by the strain of going through a...trauma." The look on the Ambassador's face is clear enough without words, so Hotch says it plainly. "An exorcism."

She gives a slight gasp. "An exorcism? That's ridiculous. I know Andrea is beyond devout, but Tom would never have allowed that."

Grimly, Morgan shakes his head. "Tom Benton was present for the exorcism."

"Dear God," she breathes. She puts a shaking hand to her mouth and blinks hard. "That explains...so much." She looks at Dave, her eyes wide and dark, looking so much like Emily it makes his heart ache. "The guilt from that would certainly be enough to drive someone to commit suicide wouldn't it?"

All attention in the room is focused on the Ambassador as Hotch asks carefully, "Who committed suicide?"

She frowns. "Tom Benton. Late last year. In the fall, just before Thanksgiving." Opening her hands she makes a gesture that is at once all-encompassing and helpless. "Considering what you've just told me Emily would have said something to you, surely."

Dave shakes his head. "Emily _would_ have said something; but she didn't, so she didn't know."

Elizabeth reaches for her water bottle, frowning at the correction. "But she did know; she sent flowers. Andrea Benton called me a few weeks ago asking for Emily's address to send a thank you note."

The look on JJ's face is horrified. She's the first to get it after Hotch and Dave. But Reid, Morgan and Garcia have all heard the stories of Andrea Benton, and her hatred of Emily, how she blamed Emily for Matthew's drug use and instability, and it doesn't take them long to catch up. By the time Hotch says, "Garcia..." Penelope's fingers are already flying over the keys.

"I'm on it, sir. I am all over it."

Morgan is on his feet, "I'll let Missing Persons and Counter-Terrorism know."

"What? You'll let them know what?" The Ambassador is clearly confused and slightly alarmed.

"Damnit." Garcia snaps the laptop closed. "I need my system."

"Spence and I will come with you," JJ says, gathering Garcia's files.

Soon it's just Hotch, Rossi and Elizabeth Prentiss at the table.

"Would one of you gentlemen please tell me what is going on?"

Hotch looks at Dave, and Dave moves his chair slightly closer to the Ambassador. "Were you aware that Matthew Benton had a drug problem?"

Elizabeth frowned. "Yes. It was tragic to see someone so young and full of potential waste their life like that."

Dave nods his agreement. "The Bentons, especially Mrs. Benton, blamed Emily for Matthew's troubles."

Drawing back as if she'd been slapped, Ambassador Prentiss protests, "That's ludicrous!"

"Yes, Ambassador, it is." Hotch laces his fingers together. "But she seemed to feel it was Emily's influence on Matthew when they were teenagers that started him down his self-destructive path."

"Why would she think that?" She looks from Hotch to Dave and back to Hotch again. "I'm sure Emily dabbled and experimented like most young people, but she never had a problem with substance abuse."

"I don't think it was about the drugs," Dave says softly.

"I don't really understand." The Ambassador looks at Dave, then at Hotch and finally shakes her head. "But you think Andrea Benton is the one who took Emily?"

Hotch looks as if he's searching for a cautious and non-commital answer, but Dave just says, "It's a place to look we hadn't thought of before; a lead we can follow. That's all we know for now." He touches her hand gently, his voice a calm reassurance. "It'll have to be enough."

All of that calm is shot to shit when he finds out Morgan is on a ride along with Missing Persons to the Benton home in Georgetown. "What the fuck, Hotch?"

"Dave, you know you couldn't go." They're in Hotch's office with the door closed, but Dave is reasonably sure everyone knows there's yelling going on.

He makes an effort to lower his voice to a more acceptable level. "I could have ridden along. I could have stayed in the car, just been there in case she was there."

Wearily, Hotch pinches the bridge of his nose. "Things are precarious as it is, Dave. They were already on the road by the time Morgan called."

Dave doesn't doubt it for a minute, but it's not like he has a lot of patience right now. He reminds himself they all care about Emily and losing his temper isn't going to help. Looking at Hotch's face, he sees the dark circles under his eyes and the lines around his mouth and he remembers he's not the only one worried, he's not the only one that cares. His shoulders slump and his voice is scratchy as he says, "Aaron, I'm sorry."

"It's hard for all of us, Dave." Hotch sits at his desk and motions for Dave to sit.

Dave is sure that's true. They're family, all of them, but he's never known this kind of pain, this kind of fear. "I don't know what I'd do without her."

"I hope you won't-" Hotch's cell phone rings, and he answers immediately. "Hotchner."

He listens, his brows drawing tighter and tighter together. "All right. I'll put Garcia on it." He doesn't bother telling Dave what's going on, just picks up the office phone and dials. "Garcia. I just heard from Morgan. The Benton townhouse is empty. Furniture's covered. No utilities. The neighbors said Mrs. Benton closed it up and moved out shortly after her husband killed himself. Do a search for any new purchases or secondary residences in either of the Bentons' names, look for forwarding addresses."

After all the hours of waiting, all the time with no action, no suspects, no clue, now things begin moving at a ridiculously fast pace. Before Dave can fully comprehend what's happening, he's in the back of an SUV with the Ambassador headed towards a remote cabin on the edge of a nature preserve outside of Leesburg. A third property, a condominium in Silver Springs that had been Matthew's, has been listed as Andrea Benton's forwarding address since late last year, but the utilities had been disconnected a week earlier. Besides, they all know if she has Emily, she doesn't have her in a two bedroom condo surrounded by neighbors. The cabin, on the other hand, seems like it would be very well suited to holding someone against their will.

After Garcia hacks Mrs. Benton's credit card account and finds recent purchases at a hardware store (rope, various hooks, fireplace implements) and a sporting goods store (ammunition for a .38 and a large hunting knife), they don't wait for an okay or a warrant, they just move.

The ride is excruciating, even with lights and sirens. Hotch and JJ are in the front, and Garcia, who insisted on coming along, is in the third row seat. Theirs is the third in a line of three Bureau SUVs flying along the state highways of Virginia. The majority of the team from Missing Persons is in the first vehicle, and the remainder of their team, along with Morgan and Reid, are riding in the second SUV. With the exception of the Ambassador, JJ and Garcia, everyone is wearing a vest and is armed.

Hands gripping the wheel tightly, Hotch throws a quick look over his shoulder. "None of you are authorized to leave this vehicle. Stay inside, keep the doors closed." Ostensibly, he's speaking to all his passengers, but Dave knows the heat and heart of it is directed at him. "We don't know for sure that Andrea Benton is the one who kidnapped Emily, and we're even less sure she's here." Dave thinks that's pushing it; they might not have any hard evidence, but Garcia had hacked to records of the local electric company and found the cabin had gone from almost no electric usage to significant usage in power over the last few days. Besides, all of their instincts have been screaming on high alert since Andrea Benton's name surfaced.

Dave knows none of them should be along; they're only here because the head of Missing Persons is willing to look the other way, and Hotch knows all too keenly what kind of anguish this is. And, frankly, Hotch has probably guessed that, had he not been allowed the ride along, Dave would simply have gotten in his car and followed. Still, he's grateful, and he'll play by the rules until he has a reason not to.

Garcia, still clicking away on a laptop, speaks up. "I've got us wired in to the radio. We'll be able to hear what's happening without ever setting foot on the ground." Hotch frowns in the rear-view mirror, as if he's not quite sure how he feels about that, but Dave silently blesses Garcia and tells himself he will buy her something shiny, expensive and gaudy when Emily is home, safe and sound. Hotch should thank her; it might be the one thing that keeps him in the car.

Two miles out they kill the sirens. A local police cruiser sits beside the ambulance they'd called for, both silent, lights off, 500 yards from the drive-way leading on to the property. The line of SUVs kills their flashing lights and pulls to a stop. Hotch, Morgan and two of the agents from Missing Persons step to the cruiser, and a short conference ensues. Everyone watches as the local begins gesturing toward the driveway.

"What are they saying?" Elizabeth Prentiss asks, impatiently.

"They don't have their radios on yet," Garcia says fretfully. "I don't know."

JJ never takes her eyes off the group. Like Dave, she watches the hand motions and what she can see of facial expressions in the glow of the headlights. Not for nothing is her forte communications. Her next comment makes it obvious she learned a lot in her years working with profilers. "I'd guess the local is giving them the lay of the land. He may even have been up to check the cabin from a distance."

In the distance, from the other direction, Dave sees the approach of three more local units, lights flashing, but no sirens. They pull up behind the first unit then join the conference. After what seems like an eternity, the group disperses, everyone walking back to their vehicles.

Hotch is talking as soon as he opens the door. "The cabin is about a half mile from the road. They did some long range surveillance and don't see any movement inside. There are lights on, Andrea Benton's car is there, but there's no sign of anyone in the windows."

The two other Bureau SUVs start slowly up the drive then the four local cruisers follow, with their SUV, obviously by design, bringing up the rear. JJ looks at Hotch. "Do we have probable cause?"

Hotch shakes his head. "No."

"How are you going to get in?"

Grim is a look they've seen Hotch wear too many times to count, but this time there's an edge of determination to it. His very expression is enough to say he has already seen too many losses, and another will not be tolerated. "I don't care. We'll figure it out."

Dave's stomach is rolling and his heart is beating faster than he ever thought possible. He had no idea he was capable of this type of fear, and he silently acknowledges it's a good thing he can't go in there with the rest of them. The line of cars spreads out as they approach the cabin, arcing around the front.

The radio crackles as the first local gets out of his cruiser, and Agent Morrison, from Missing Persons, exits his SUV. "We're just going to see if Mrs. Benton is home." The local unsnaps his weapon; Morrison unholsters his and hugs the wall. They nod at each other, and the local knocks on the door. The wait feels interminable before he knocks again; still, no response.

The radio catches, hums, and the local says, "I can hear music...church music, but not hymns." The voice is tinny through the computer's small speaker.

"Chanting," Morrison supplies.

Dave swallows bile. _She's in there. Emily is in there._ He wonders what she's suffered at Andrea Benton's hands over the last few days. He prays she's still alive.

Hotch speaks into the mic at his cuff. "Ambassador Prentiss is a friend of Mrs. Benton. She has expressed concern over her health and well-being. Since she's not answering the door, she may be ill or injured; I think we need to check."

Morrison makes a forward motion, and the officers and agents pour out of vehicles like ants out of an overturned hill. "Very good."

Whether this probable cause will stand up in court is debatable, and Dave doesn't really care. All he does care about is Emily.

Hotch turns as he's exiting the SUV and nails him with a glare. "I will call for you when it's clear. Do not set foot out of this vehicle until then."

Dave holds up both hands in a gesture of surrender. Hotch turns and joins the others on the porch.

The entry is quiet, orderly and by the book. The radio channel is open now, and everything spills out into the air between the four of them. The Ambassador's eyes are clenched, and her lips are moving in silent prayer, her fingers moving as though holding an invisible rosary. JJ is watching the sound wave representation on the computer screen, and Garcia is watching Dave. He turns from her gaze and stares at the cabin, imagining their movements as they go through each room, as each different voice calls, "Clear!"

"What's that smell?" from a voice he doesn't know comes across seconds before Morgan says with some urgency, "There's a basement."

_Fuck._ Basements are a nightmare in a hostage situation. They can be dark, have places to hide, house all kinds of nasty surprises. The victim could be alive when you start down the stairs and dead by the time you get to the bottom. Morgan calls "FBI!" and there's a woman's cry (Dave heart jumps, but he's not sure if it's in fear or hope) and the sound of ten people thundering down a set of stairs.

"Jesus." Another voice he doesn't know.

Then Morgan speaks calmly, and Dave can picture him, arm extended, weapon drawn, still trying to appear non-threatening. "Drop the knife, ma'am."

"No. No!" It's a woman's voice. Dave doubts he would recognize Andrea Benton's voice if he heard it again, but he knows this doesn't sound the same as the reserved, elegant woman he'd met almost two years ago. This voice barely sounds human.

"Mrs. Benton?" Morgan must receive some confirmation that it is indeed Andrea Benton he's speaking to. "Mrs. Benton, hurting Emily isn't going to bring your son or your husband back."

"She's alive." JJ's voice is shaking and so are Ambassador Prentiss's hands.

"No! You don't understand. She's evil." There's something that sounds like a sob, but Dave doesn't know if it's from the Benton woman or from Emily.

"I knew...in Italy, I knew she was a bad influence. The things she made Matthew do! I pretended not to know, but I knew! I knew!"

"Mrs. Benton." Hotch's voice firm, unemotional. "Put down the knife."

"See? See? She has you all fooled. Under a spell." There's a fervor that borders on hysteria in the woman's voice. "I thought, I thought-I made a mistake...I thought she was just bad. I didn't know she was evil, didn't know she was a demon." Her voice shakes and Dave's sure he can hear rasping breathing and the rustle of an FBI jacket against a bullet-proof vest. "But then she let her evil into Matthew, and the demon killed him and then it ate at Tom...whispered in his ear and made him doubt himself." She cries out, voice anguished. "It made him commit the one unforgivable sin." She lets out a wracking sob. "She killed Matthew, and she sent Tom to Hell. She's a demon, evil. I can't let her stay...she has to go back to Hell."

"Mrs. Benton, I don't want to hurt you." Morgan's voice is gentle, almost pleading. "Please put down the knife."

"No!" There's another cry, Dave thinks it must be from Emily, then Andrea Benton screams and there are at least two gunshots.

Dave reaches blindly for the door handle, but it doesn't budge.

"Suspect down!"

"Rossi! You have to wait for Hotch to give the signal." JJ's voice is very far away, but Dave looks up at her and it occurs to him that Hotch has used the protective locks on the back doors.

There's a riot of noise over the radio, including the call for the ambulance and a request for a second bus.

"Son-of-a-bitch!" He yells and reaches for his weapon, briefly considering shooting the window out.

"Calm down." JJ stops him before he can use his gun to break the glass. She looks stricken, upset and a little afraid. "Emily is alive. Andrea Benton is down."

Then he hears Emily's voice, weak and shaky. "Take a picture."

Hotch, incredulous, asks, "What?"

"Before you cut the ropes...take a picture." He hears her swallow. "To prove it's a clean shoot."

"JJ," Hotch says, "let Dave out. The rest of you stay put."

The locks thump open, and he's out of the car and up on the porch as the ambulance pulls into the yard. The cabin is picture perfect, something meant to give the feel of rustic, but modern and decorated with gleaming wood and overstuffed chairs. Though instead of some designer fragrance from Yankee candle, there's the scent of burning hair and seared flesh.

Instinct leads him straight to the stairs and down to Emily.

She's sitting on the basement floor, supported by Morgan while Hotch works at cutting the ropes around her wrists. Her face is bruised; different shades of red and purple cover both her cheeks and surround her left eye. Her lips are cracked and bleeding. Her hair has been...cut is the wrong word...hacked off seems to describe it best; it's different lengths all over her head, scraggly and uneven. There's a thin ribbon of blood trickling down her neck and a blackened spot on her blouse that appears to be stuck to blackened skin beneath.

The ropes give, and she takes a shaky breath as she flexes her wrists. Rope burns are red and angry against her fair skin. She looks up as the EMTs clamber down the stairs with the stretcher and sees him standing there. "Hey."

He swallows, hoping to push the lump in his throat away, but there's no room for it, his chest is too full of his heart, so the word comes out raspy and shaky when he replies, "Hey."

"Sorry I missed dinner." Her smile is weak, but she holds up her wrists. "I got tied up."

Then he's on the floor with her, gathering her close, but carefully. He meant to comfort her, but she's the one whispering "It's okay, it's okay," as he cries in to what's left of her hair, and Hotch quietly guides everyone away from their intimate little huddle.

TBC...


	3. Chapter 3

**Spoilers:** Oh, let's say everything through the current season. Except the last 2 weeks. Forget you saw those.  
**Author's Notes:** I am grateful to **smittywing** for cheerleading and talking me over some hard parts, listening to me vent and telling me what was missing. Many, many thanks to **smacky30** for the beta. And the cheerleading. And the general awesomeness. I really suck without both of them.

* * *

Dehydration.

Shock.

Cuts and contusions.

A third degree burn just above her left breast, roughly in the shape of a cross.

All in all, the doctors say she got out lucky. Another few hours could have told a different story.

They give her a CAT scan, treat the cuts and bruises, do what they can for the burn, and hook her to an IV.

It's after two Monday morning by the time she's settled in her hospital room.

Andrea Benton died in surgery, but he hasn't told Emily yet, though she's smart enough to figure it out.

The team all laid eyes on her, hugged her and kissed her cheek with promises to be back tomorrow. Emily's mother, looking every bit her age plus twenty, was ordered home by both Emily and her doctor. She left reluctantly, but, Dave supposes, the greatest part of diplomacy is knowing when to give in and the Ambassador is a master diplomat.

Hell, he's looked in a mirror and knows he looks worse than the Ambassador. He's grateful he's been allowed to stay.

When they're finally alone, Emily looks at him as if he's lost his mind when he starts to settle in the chair beside the bed.

"What?"

She quirks an eyebrow at him and pats the bed beside her.

He is both charmed and alarmed. "Prentiss, that is a hospital bed. It's very narrow." He makes a gesture indicating a small space with his hands. "Besides, I'm pretty sure that's against the rules."

"Your sofa is even narrower." She makes the same gesture, only smaller, and he's confident she's mocking him. "And we've shared that before. Oh, and by the way, when did you start caring about rules?" She looks at him expectantly.

His reaction time is severely hampered by exhaustion and the ebb of adrenaline; most surprising of all, he finds he doesn't _really_want to argue. "I'm afraid I'll hurt you." His words are stark and a little raw.

"David Rossi, get in this bed or _I_ will hurt _you_." It's an act, he knows, the sass and bravado, but there's part of him that is intensely grateful she's capable of acting when he isn't.

He smiles. "You would wouldn't you?"

"Doubt me and see," she says haughtily. She's clearly exhausted, and she has to be in some pain. But she's still Emily, so the show of bravado isn't really a surprise.

He sheds his jacket and toes off his shoes. When she seems to be satisfied he's following orders, Emily rolls onto her side away from him, close to the edge of the bed, and Dave, careful of the IV, climbs in behind her, gathering her close and curling around her. Their fingers intertwine over her abdomen, and he closes his eyes and breathes her in.

They're silent for a while, and he's almost convinced himself she's gone to sleep when she starts talking. Her voice is quiet, but her tone is matter-of-fact. "When she showed up Friday night, she said she wanted to apologize for being so harsh after Matthew died, and she wanted to talk to me about my friendship with him." She pauses for a moment, and he feels her shake her head. "She seemed nervous, but I thought it was just...you know...awkward. She asked for a glass of water. I turned around, and she hit me with a stun gun."

He can't help the way his arm tightens around her as she continues, "I was going to fight then I saw the gun, the .38, and I knew she'd had some sort of mental break."

"You're being kind." He kisses her hair. "She was crazy."

Emily gives a small snort and squeezes his fingers and allows the silence to stretch out between them. He waits, somehow knowing she's struggling with what she's going to tell him next. While he waits, he absorbs the warmth of her back against his front, the touch of her fingers against his, the feel of her hair against his cheek. ("Your poor hair," her mother had cried...well, her mother had just cried).

"She knew about Italy and the abortion. She thought Matthew was the father."

He places a gentle kiss against her shoulder. "She wanted to think the worst of you."

"Most of what she thought was true." Her voice is flat, with a trace of sad acceptance.

That makes rage bloom inside his chest faster than he'd thought possible; it takes every bit of self-control he has to remember they're in a hospital, in the middle of the night, and she's had a helluva few days. He does manage not to yell, but even he will acknowledge his voice is little more than a controlled growl. "Would you please stop blaming yourself because someone helped you out when you were a kid? If Matthew had the kind of doubt that surfaced after what happened in Italy, it could just as easily have surfaced over something else." He feels her tense against him, and he's not sure if it's because she can feel that he really is angry or she wants to tell him he's wrong. "I met both of his parents, Emily. I saw the way they treated you, I listened to how they talked about their son when he had just died. Trust me, Matthew would have come to a crisis and rebellion at some point; you just happened to be there when it first started."

He feels her wilt a little against him. She tucks her face against his arm, and it's not long before he feels moisture soaking through his sleeve. When he realizes she's crying, all of his anger drains away, collapsing as suddenly as it had risen inside him.

"You didn't kill Matthew; you didn't set him on that road." He kisses her temple. "You're a good person." He swallows thickly. "One of the best."

They lay there, Emily silently crying against him. His hold is gentle, and he soothes her with soft kisses and softer words. It takes a while, but the storm passes, leaving them melted against each other.

Tears are natural, he knows. If it were anyone but Emily there would have been non-stop tears since they found her. Of course, anybody but Emily might not have lived through the ordeal. The thought makes him a little queasy and a lot grateful. "Oh, and by the way," he says apropos of nothing, "you will not be leaving my sight for a very long time." Weak as it is, it earns him a small chuckle, and he smiles against her hair.

"I want to have a baby."

Well, okay, talk about apropos of nothing.

"Don't say anything," she says urgently, as if she regrets blurting it out like that. But if she could see his face she'd probably be able to tell he wasn't really capable of speech at the moment. Emily, however, seems to be having trouble _not_ talking. Her words come out in a rush that makes him wonder, with the part of his brain still capable of thought, where she got the energy to talk that fast. "I mean, not this...it doesn't have to be right away. And it's not because of this. I mean, yes, it is because experiences like this do tend to make you sort of look at your life and think about what you might like to accomplish. But it's not because of Matthew or what happened in Italy. I just..." She squeezes his forearm. "I want to have a baby, and I think I need to be honest with you about that. I didn't want to spring it on you, though, yeah, okay, I guess I did spring it on you. But we've never talked about whether this is temporary or..." She clears her throat, and his arm tightens around her. "But, at least for right now, things I decide impact you, they impact _us_, and I know we need to talk to...to...to define some things, figure out where we're going. Figure out if we're going anywhere. So I didn't want to blindside you." She gives a small, nervous laugh. "There's no way to not spring that on someone. I'm sorry."

"Emily." He doesn't know what he wants to say, he just knows she needs to know he's heard her. "We'll talk. Soon. Whenever you're ready." The thought terrifies him a little, though not in the same way the thoughts of her being hurt or dead or dying had over the past few days. That, he thinks, is something.

"Okay," she agrees and relaxes back against him.

"Okay." He kisses her shoulder, and she squeezes his arm again. Not long after, he hears her breathing even out and knows that she's finally asleep. Normally, his brain would be flying over the past few days or the possibilities of the future, but he's exhausted and relieved, and he's not really capable of thought anymore. So he counts her breaths and allows himself to follow her down.

The morning nurse that comes in to check Emily's vital signs kicks him out of bed; she is less than impressed when Emily grins at her, unrepentant. She does, however, manage to find Dave a cup of coffee when Emily's breakfast tray is brought in, and Emily feeds him half of her eggs and all of her bacon. He's still tired and feels a bit like he's just crawled out from under a collapsed building, but he's so happy to see her face, to hear her voice, he doesn't much care how he feels. When he gets her home though, they're going to bed and sleep for a week.

The morning is a bustle of nurses and doctors, with the final pronouncement being she can go home after she's received another bag of IV fluids, probably sometime in the afternoon. It's late morning when the Ambassador shows up with several shopping bags and a cadre of minions; including a lanky man in his forties, dressed all in black with two black bags, one across each shoulder. From what Dave is able to gather, he is both an old friend and a hair stylist. He begins talking as soon as he's kissed Emily's cheek.

"Who could do this to that gorgeous mane of yours?" He lifts several of the longest of the scraggles and lets them fall. "Only a monster. But, you know what? It's just hair. It grows back." He cups her chin with what Dave can tell even from a distance is a gentle touch. "In the meantime, I'm thinking something Audrey Hepburn? You certainly have the neck for it. What do you say?"

Emily, smiling, gestures to Dave. "Steven Rogers, Dave Rossi."

Steven's handshake is firm, and his look is frankly assessing, though his words are friendly. "It's nice to meet you. I've heard so much about you." He holds up a hand. "Most of it good."

Emily's cheeks are pink, and the Ambassador has an eyebrow cocked towards Steven. "Which means, Steven, you have been withholding from me."

"Elizabeth." He meets her gaze with a raised eyebrow of his own. "Stylist-client confidentiality is more sacred than doctor-patient confidentiality." He removes both of the bags and sets them on the floor near the bathroom.

She gives a haughty sniff, but Dave can tell it's playful. "Well, now that I know where your loyalty truly rests, this changes everything."

"If everything has changed, then I guess I can tell Emily all of your deep, dark secrets?" Stephen asks as he directs one of the women who accompanied them toward the bathroom and another to the chair on the other side of the hospital bed.

"Oh!" Emily says as her mother guides her legs out of the bed. "I'll pay."

"You'll do nothing of the kind." The Ambassador looks at Dave. "David? Where do you fall on this issue?"

Dave holds his hands up. "I fall wherever I can get another cup of coffee."

Emily and her mother both laugh as Steven says, "Smart man." He makes a gesture that encompasses the room, Emily and the others. "Take your time. We're going to pamper our girl for the next hour or so."

Making good on his retreat, Dave heads down to the cafeteria; he gets a cup of coffee and an egg salad sandwich. He drinks the coffee, but just picks at the sandwich, pulling the crusts off and idly shredding the lettuce as he listens to his voice messages.

"Dave, it's Aaron. I just wanted to check on Emily and see if either of you need anything. Call when you get a chance."

"Hey Rossi, man, Reid and I were wondering if we should swing by the hospital to see Prentiss, or if they were letting her go today. Let me know."

"Garcia here, sir. Checking in to see if there's any contraband I can smuggle in to you and your lady love... Oh! I say that with all due respect, sir."

"Agent Rossi. It's Erin Strauss. We need to meet. I'll give you a few days to let things settle. Call my assistant and book something for the end of the week."

Dave makes a moue of distaste. No need to return that call today. He's well aware of where it's going to go. Instead, he calls Aaron, but gets his voicemail. Garcia answers her phone, and he lets her know Emily will likely be going home in the afternoon, telling her to spread the word. He doesn't specify home is his house, but after the past few days if they can't figure that out, they don't need to be working on this team.

He finishes his coffee and tosses the poor, mutilated sandwich into the trash. He walks across the lobby into the gift shop looking for some ibuprofen and maybe some flowers for Emily. The painkillers are near the register, and he snags a couple of the single dose packets on his way to the cooler. The flower arrangements are surprisingly less expensive than he imagined a hospital gift shop would be. Not that Emily isn't worth every flower in the case and more.

"I like the yellow ones," a small voice offers.

Looking down, Rossi sees a curly haired girl of no more than five with her nose pressed against the glass of the cooler.

"Oh, you do?" He smiles.

"My mommy's gots flowers in her room, but they're mostly blue 'cause I gots a brother."

Rossi, a little amused, addresses his companion. "Well, that's pretty nice; you get to be a big sister."

She looks up at him with large blue eyes, in what he imagines is a look of disdain for the kindergarten set. "Boys are dumb."

He clamps down hard on the urge to laugh. "Well, you're his sister, maybe you can teach him not to be a typical boy."

"I s'pose," she sighs. "Nana did say we could have cake since today was his birthday."

Dave nods sagely. "There you go. Look on the bright side."

"Jenna!" A rather harried looking silver-haired woman swoops over from the opposite side of the register. "You scared me to death! Haven't I told you not to wander off?" She gives him a nervous smile. "Sorry if she was bothering you."

"It's all right. We were just discussing flowers."

The woman he assumes is Nana holds out her hand. "Let's go back up to the room, sweetie."

From the look on Jenna's face Nana is not ranking much higher than boys at the moment. But she says, "Okay," and takes her grandmother's hand. She looks back over her shoulder at him. "Bye."

He raises a hand. "Bye."

Shaking his head a little, he reaches into the cooler and pulls out the large bouquet of bright yellow sunflowers. Taking them to the register, he smiles. _Not all boys are dumb, Jenna._

Emily looks as though she feels much better when he returns. She's dressed in red silk pajamas with a mandarin collar; her hair is now cut in a short, sleek style, the ravages of Andrea Benton's scissors covered under an expert hand. Steven and the other women that came in with him are gone, but the Ambassador is still there.

Receiving the flowers with an almost shy smile, Emily touches his hand. "Thank you."

The Ambassador actually makes a "tsk" noise. "For goodness sake, Emily." The Ambassador sighs. "I will not run screaming from the room if you thank him properly."

Flushing brightly, Emily nevertheless tugs on his hand, and he laughs a little as he kisses her. The Ambassador is smiling indulgently when he looks at her and she actually _winks_ at him.

He's pretty sure he's never been winked at by a high ranking official from the State Department.

"Emily says she'll likely be released later today?"

He pulls a chair a little closer to the bed. "The doctor said once she got another bag of fluids they'd let her go."

She sits a little straighter in her chair. "I'm assuming you were planning on taking her home?" Dave nods, and the Ambassador continues. "Good. The press is outside the hospital and, unfortunately, outside my home as well. I thought I would leave by the back entrance but make sure they see the car when I go by. Hopefully, that will distract them enough for you to get her to your car and away before anyone realizes she is not with me."

It's a decent plan, but has a couple of flaws. Primarily, the fact that his car isn't here and secondarily, while he's not as recognizable as the Ambassador, he's had his fair share of press and most local reporters are going to know him and know he works with Emily. The former is easily cured by Garcia retrieving his keys and driving the Jag to the hospital in Leesburg, with Hotch following to give her a ride back.

"If you ever need someone to watch after your car while you're out of town, I am more than happy to volunteer," Garcia burbles, happily smacking kisses onto Emily's cheeks. "Oh, look at the new 'do! That is so chic! I actually think I like it better like this."

The Ambassador is beaming at her gratefully as Hotch comes through the door to Emily's room. He's dressed casually, which, for a Monday is a bit of a surprise. "We're on stand down; two weeks," he says when both Emily and Rossi look questioningly at his wardrobe. Rossi starts to ask why, but between the run of cases and the kidnapping of a team member, it's obvious why the higher ups have decided it might be best for the team's morale and overall mental health to have some downtime. No one, at this point, is going to complain.

Hotch talks to security, who are more than willing to help. They've been holding the reporters at bay since early this morning when word broke that Ambassador Prentiss's daughter had been found and taken to the hospital. While the Ambassador did release a short statement expressing gratitude to everyone who helped find Emily and thanking everyone for their thoughts and prayers, details of the case were not being released yet which made the press all that much more voracious. So, hospital security gladly offers to see the Ambassador out a side entrance, but with enough fanfare to distract the reporters from the ambulance entrance, where Dave will be allowed to pick up Emily.

It's a little bit cloak and dagger, but Dave is sure the last thing Emily wants is her bruised face all over the news.

Hotch decides to follow, just to be on the safe side, which is how he and Garcia end up at Dave's, followed shortly by Reid and Morgan. Kevin comes to pick up Penelope, and Dave finds himself hosting an impromptu party with Emily tucked up on the sofa. They call for pizza, and Garcia calls JJ, who makes a beer run on her way over. Hotch sips some of Dave's finer Scotch while Reid explains the method of perfectly aging Scotch. He rambles on about how the type of cask used for aging the whiskey impacts the color. "In order to be legally called Scotch it has to age in the cask at least three years, though the most common aging is a minimum of eight years in the cask. Of course, once it's bottled it stops aging."

Garcia, arguably the best at managing Reid in social situations, hooks her arm through his and says, "Come on, Boy Wonder, come have a beer and tell Kevin about the difference between beer and lager."

"Well, actually, lager _is_ beer. But not all beer is lager, because beer can be either ale or lager." The facts tumble out, but he's moving along with her. "The differences are really about how they're brewed. The type of yeast used in the brew and the temperature at which fermentation takes place determine whether it's a lager or an ale. Top-fermenting yeast which allows for rapid fermentation at warmer temperatures is used to brew ales. Lagers are brewed with bottom-fermenting yeast; they ferment more slowly and at colder temperatures." His voice fades as they move away and Hotch and Dave grin at each other. Hotch looks over at Emily on the sofa. Her feet are in JJ's lap and Morgan is grinning at her from Dave's armchair, then he says something that makes both her and JJ laugh.

Hotch tips his glass first towards Emily, then Dave. "Glad she's back safe." There's a smile on his face, relief in his expression, but there's an echo there of sadness for other times, times when things hadn't turned out so well.

It hits Dave then, like a bucket of water to the face, how goddamn fortunate he is. He remembers the day Haley died, listening to the shots over the radio. He remembers the team gathering around Hotch in the days after her death, wanting desperately to _do_ something and knowing there was nothing to do. His chest tightens at the thought, his heart squeezes until it's a little hard to breathe. He looks at Emily, looks at her laughing, watches as she reaches out and pops Morgan on the leg. _Thank you, God,_ he thinks, but he says aloud, fervently, "Me, too."

Monday night, it turns out, is a pretty good night for an impromptu party. Emily isn't taking any medication, so she's sipping beer with the rest of them. But everyone keeps a watchful eye on her, makingher drink water between beers, reminding her she's just been treated for dehydration. She grumbles good-naturedly about being molly-coddled, but drinks the water anyway. They eat pizza and wings, and Garcia and Kevin manage to whip up a fairly decent pan of brownies with only what they find in the kitchen.

Dave ends up calling a few cabs and is grateful he doesn't have to be anywhere too early tomorrow, since his driveway is blocked by a number of cars. He spares a wince of sympathy for JJ, the only one who has to work in the morning. Morgan is planning to go to Chicago, and Reid is heading to Las Vegas. while Hotch is planning on some quality time with Jack. Dave doesn't want to know what Garcia is up to. He loves her as much as he loves the rest of the team, but he thinks it's wise not to know too much about what she does with her free time.

It's heaven to be in their bed, holding each other. And though this bed is far larger than the one they'd shared last night, they still curl up just as close together to sleep.

They sleep past noon and wake to find all the stray cars out of the drive-way. There are several notes on the front porch, along with a bouquet of flowers from Morgan, a stack of sci-fi novels from Garcia and a bottle of wine from Hotch. He takes her to a late afternoon appointment with a plastic surgeon, who specializes in burn treatment, for an evaluation of the brand on her chest, then over to her mother's house for dinner. Photos of a senator's son smoking a bong broke overnight; thankfully, the press appears to have given up on Ambassador Prentiss, and is stalking the senator instead.

He's looking forward to a pleasant evening with Emily and her mother, but what he gets is a front row seat to an icy argument between the two women when Emily states, unequivocally, that she intends to attend Andrea Benton's funeral on Thursday. To say the Ambassador doesn't support the idea is putting it mildly, but Emily digs in. Dave doesn't support the idea either, but he also knows when Emily is hell bent there's nothing to be said that will change her mind. That is how he ends up by Emily's side in a half empty chapel two days later, listening to Mass being said for the soul of Andrea Benton. Despite her feelings on the matter of Emily's attendance, Elizabeth is on the other side of her daughter, rosary in hand, mouth tight.

It's starting to rain, and he's grateful when Emily says she doesn't want to go to the graveside ceremony.

Elizabeth kisses Dave's cheek with a heartfelt, "Thank you, David," when he opens her car door for her, keeping her sheltered under his umbrella. She turns to Emily and cups her cheek. "She hurt you. No matter what her reasons, no matter that she was...unbalanced, it is difficult, as a mother, to forgive the person that hurts your child." Leaning forward, she places a kiss on Emily's cheek. "I realized last night that I may not have been the best mother, but I am a successful one, since my child is now a better person than I am."

He sees the tears well up in Emily's eyes and then she and the Ambassador are embracing warmly, and he's having a hell of a time keeping them both dry, though he doesn't think either of them notice.

Emily is quiet on the way home, and he doesn't press her. It's going to take her a while to process everything. If she needs something from him he's relatively certain she'll ask for it. The Bureau is going to insist on a psych eval before they let her back out in the field. He knows that if someone tells her she needs outside help, or she feels she needs it, she'll get it.

She slips off her shoes and curls up on the sofa with a book when they get home. He leaves her alone for a while, he's probably (definitely) been hovering and is sure she could use a little space.

It's difficult to focus, but he does his best. He does a little research and answers a few e-mails. When he decides she's had enough time alone, he grabs a bag from the drugstore where he'd gotten Emily's prescription filled and heads back to the den.

He studies her face from the doorway. The bruises are already fading, helped along, no doubt, by the facial one of the women with Steven had given her Monday and some special lotion the plastic surgeon prescribed that cost more than his first divorce. Her expression has a lingering touch of sadness, but she appears mainly serene.

Taking one step into the room, he tosses the box in his hand on the coffee table. Emily starts, and then looks at him, annoyed, before looking down at the table. Her eyebrows climb. "Rossi, why are you throwing a box of-" She leans forward and the eyebrows go higher. "-Ultra Thin Lubricated condoms at me?"

"I wasn't throwing them _at_ you, Prentiss, I was throwing them _to_ you." He smirks as he rounds the coffee table and sits on the sofa beside her.

"Okay." She shifts to face him, her tone exaggeratedly patient. "Why are you throwing a box of condoms _to_ me?"

"I've been reading, and most doctors recommend using some sort of barrier method of birth control for the first month after you go off the pill, before you start actively trying to conceive."

She blinks, and her face goes completely blank, the way it does when she doesn't get something and she's racing to catch up before anyone figures out she doesn't know. Then her expression shifts to something disbelieving and incredulous. "What?" She looks as if she might need to be reminded to breathe. "Just like that?"

"Just like what?" He asks, still smirking.

"No discussion...no argument...no...no nothing?" She's dangerously close to sputtering, and when she gets herself together, he is never letting her live this down. "Just...okay?"

"Okay," he nods seriously.

"Really?" Emily still does not look convinced or, for that matter, happy.

"Really."

She shakes her head as if to clear it. "I can't...wow...I didn't expect it to go this smoothly."

He captures her hand. "A week ago, it might not have."

A shadow crosses her face, and she shakes her head again. "Don't. Don't do something you don't really want to do in reaction to...to...last weekend, okay?"

"I'm not." He squeezes her hand. "What was it you said in the hospital? That things like that make you realize what you want to do with your life. They also make you realize what you don't want to do with your life. And I don't want to be without you."

Emily pushes her hair back from her face. "You can't go from not wanting a child at all to suddenly agreeing to have a baby with me and not expect me to think this is reaction."

"You are the only woman I know who would argue about getting something she wants." Sighing a little, he shakes his head. "I've always known you want a family. And, yeah, maybe a few weeks ago it might have taken a few more conversations."

She snorts. "You mean fights."

Giving her a severe look, he sits back. "Discussions. But I would have gotten here eventually." He tugs her a little closer, grateful when she comes willingly. "If you're going to have a kid, I want it to be my kid, our kid." He kisses her temple. "I'm not going to say I want a baby as much as you do, but I do know I'll love any kid we have." Smiling, he rests his cheek against her hair. "I'm old and I'm fussy and I'll probably screw up a hundred times the first week, but I want to try."

Her voice, when she speaks, is small and a little breathy. "You're sure? Don't say this...unless you're really, really sure."

He remembers telling Hotch once that the only people he'd ever made happy were divorce lawyers, but that maybe he would have tried harder if he'd ever had a kid. He supposes the previous failures should keep him from making plans, but this is Emily, and baby or no baby, she's his future. He knows he'll have to work at it, but there is a still a sense of the inevitable when he thinks about the two of them together. "I'm really, really sure." Dave laughs a little. "I'm really, really terrified, but I'm sure."

She laughs with him then moves so she can look into his eyes. "Thank you." Her eyes are dark, and her smile is soft. He leans forward, watching as her eyes slowly drift closed and touches his lips to hers. The kiss is soft, lips against lips, and his own eyes close as he absorbs the taste and feel of her mouth against his, his hands gently cupping her jaw. He feels her hands flutter against his neck, one settling there, the other scratching through the short hairs at the back of his head.

It's a quiet moment there between them, the silence stretching out, elongating, wrapping them up in the moment, the here and now, away from everything but each other. _This,_ he thinks, _this is everything._

The kiss is gentle, chaste almost, until Emily tries to straddle him, and he finds himself clutching her shoulders to stop her, to slow things down again. "I don't want…we don't have to do this right now."

"I'm not hurting, and I'm not going to break," she says firmly, pulling his head toward hers. "I want this. I want you."

Her mouth opens easily under his, and he dips in to taste her. She's warm and alive, she's Emily and she's here. He breaks the kiss, leaning his forehead against hers, breathing past the sudden thickness in his throat. "Em," he chokes out. That isn't how he wants this to go, but she starts placing tiny kisses against his face, the corner of his mouth, nipping at his lip, kissing his earlobe, giving him time to get himself together, to breathe through it, until he can speak without his voice cracking or wobbling. "I love you."

That, he decides, is all the talking they need to do. He pulls her completely into his lap and kisses her hungrily, mouths open , teeth and tongue. Wrapping his arms around her back, he brings her as close as he can. It's an intense onslaught of sensation, Emily on his mouth, Emily in his arms, Emily pressing against his chest and against his cock. He can smell her perfume and the faint citrus of the cream for her face. Through her clothes, he feels the shift of her muscles. Then he hears the little sounds she makes in the back of her throat when she's starting to get turned on, and sees the aroused flush on her skin as he slips open the buttons of her blouse.

She arches when his lips find her neck and his thumb grazes over a nipple, and he can't get her blouse off of her fast enough. When she shrugs out of it, he sees the thin layer of gauze covering the burn above her breast and his heart clenches.

"Hey," she says, fingers pushing through his hair, eyes on his face. "It's okay."

He shakes his head, but she leans down and kisses him. "It's okay." She kisses him again, hands on his shoulders, tongue stroking against his. Then she rolls her hips against him once, twice, three times, and she has him believing even if it's not okay, it will be very soon.

Skin. He wants her skin against his skin, and that needs to happen _right now_. His gaze is greedy as he watches her unsnap her bra and pull it off. She's trying to push his shirt off but he wraps an arm across her back and takes her nipple into his mouth.

"Jesus, Dave." She arches like an electric current is moving through her body, but that only gives him better access. By the time he moves to her other breast she's practically grinding against him, and he can smell how turned on she is. He slips a hand down and opens the clasp on her pants. Pushing the zipper down, he glides his fingers into her panties. He groans when he feels just how wet she is, and that makes Emily arch harder.

"Fuck." Her voice is raspy and a little bit desperate. "Fuck, Dave. Please." He slides two fingers in and she groans, he touches her clit with his thumb and she cries out. "Oh, god, yes." She rides his fingers for a minute then she pulls off, panting. "No." She shudders. "I want you. Inside me. Now."

Dave is just fine with that. He's pretty sure he's never gotten his pants off so fast, but Emily is already naked, laid out on the sofa, struggling to open the condom box. He hovers over her, drinking her in; skin and shadow, curves and hollows, breasts high and firm, the flush on her chest and her long, long legs. "You're beautiful," he rasps. "So damn beautiful."

He bows over her, kissing her with both tenderness and hunger, and she meets and matches him with a gratifying eagerness, all while struggling with the damn box. There's the sound of ripping cardboard then the condoms burst between them in a geyser of foil wrapped latex, Emily squawks in surprise, and he's laughing against her neck. She huffs in frustration, mock growling, "Rossi. I want you. _Now._"

It sounds more like an order than a statement of seduction, so he gives her a falsely demure, "Yes, ma'am," and plucks a condom from between the back of the sofa and the warm skin of her hip, stopping for just a second to run his thumb over the ridge of bone there.

"Slow," she complains snagging the condom and ripping the foil. He doesn't really mind, just keeps stroking her hip, enjoying the contrast of his tan fingers against her fair skin, the feel of her under his hand. When she rolls the condom on, he groans; when she strokes him, he can't think about anything else but getting closer to her. She shifts, and he's cradled between her thighs; he pushes in, and she lifts to him. It's been more than a year since he's worn a condom, but he's actually grateful for the way it dulls the sensation, because he wants her so much, he's so crazy for her, he's in danger of going off like a teenager, and he doesn't want that. He wants to savor this, wants to be here fully in this moment.

He doesn't move, just holds there, breathing and breathing her in. He came so close to losing her, but she's here, she's right here with him, soft and warm, vibrant and alive, and he's never been so grateful for anything in his entire fucking life. His heart is full, and his throat is thick, and he wants to tell her how much she means to him, but he just doesn't have the kind of words he needs. Emily looks at him, her eyes wide and dark, full of want and so much more. She lifts a gentle hand to his face, her thumb stroking across his cheek, and he realizes she's wiping away a tear. "I love you." It still sounds choked, so he says it again, moving slightly against her. "I love you."

Moving with him, she whispers, "I love you, too."

He withdraws, and she follows; he thrusts, and she meets him. "I love you," he repeats, bending to kiss her. They're moving together; it's slow and it's sweet and it's inevitable. _They_ are inevitable.

Every movement sends a shiver through him, want and need and pleasure all rolled up together, climbing up his spine, coiling in his belly, crawling over his nerve endings like electric current. She moves with him, and he's having trouble distinguishing who is gasping and who is moaning. It's animal and intense, pleasure and passion and love. God, so much love. Like he could somehow move the way he feels for her through his body and into hers so she can feel it, feel it the way he feels it, feel it the way it feels in his chest and his head and his hands and his mouth. Like she could somehow know what it feels like when he holds her hand or sees her smile or hears her laugh. Like she could feel his love from simply having his skin against her skin, his hips against hers, his mouth against hers. He's desperate for her to know, but all he has are his words. They're just words, though, and they're not enough. Still, he says them anyway, over and over. "I love you, Emily, I love you."

He's rocking into her, and she meets every move of his body, drawing him closer, deeper. She's clutching at him; her hands are skimming over his back, grasping his ass, clutching his biceps. Her legs are wrapped around him, opening her body wider, and he moves against her, moves in to her, but he just can't get close enough, can't get deep enough. Her body is clutching him, she's so warm and tight and it's all too much. "So good," he breathes against her mouth, sliding a hand against her thigh, feeling the smoothness of her skin, running his fingers over her hip, sliding between them, slipping his thumb against her clit.

"Dave," she cries. "Dave."

Her body is clinging to him, muscles shifting and tightening. Her breathing is getting a little faster, her chest rising and falling with each breathy little gasp, hard nipples brushing against his chest as her eyes get wider, as she arches higher. "Come on, Em." He rubs a little faster; he's just not sure how much longer he can hold on. "I need you so much. I need to feel you."`

"Yes," she gasps. "Yes, yes. Now. Yes. Dave."

Even through the condom he feels her, feels her muscles flutter, feels them begin to ripple and clench, and he finally stops trying to hold on and just lets himself go, lets her pull him in to her orgasm, like it's one orgasm, slicing through and shattering both of them at once. She's all around him, her skin, her scent, the noises she's making, and he just keeps falling, falling apart and falling into her.

When higher brain function returns (though that description might be stretching the way he feels, it's more like he's regained consciousness without ever having passed out) he sort of feels like he's been turned inside out. He's completely relaxed, languid, boneless, content. He withdraws carefully, despite Emily's whimper of protest and tosses the condom into the wastebasket at the end of the sofa, making a mental note to deal with that later. Then he turns back to Emily, and they arrange themselves much as they had in the small hospital bed early in the week. He wraps his arms around her, placing soft grateful kisses against her neck. "I love you," he whispers against her skin.

"I heard," she whispers back. "I love you, too."

"Good." He kisses her hair.

"It'll grow back," she says.

It takes him a minute to catch up. He'd almost forgotten that a week ago her hair had been long. "I know," he agrees. "But I'm kind of enjoying this." He nips playfully at the line of her neck, smiling when she squirms against him. "There's a lot to be said for easy access." Wrapping his arms tightly around her, he rubs his beard against her neck, and she squeals, which is a sound he's never heard from her, and it makes him laugh.

Emily turns in his arms, nearly knocking his ass onto the floor, and that just makes him laugh harder as he scrabbles for purchase. They end up with him on his back, still on the sofa, though it had been a near thing for a minute or two. Emily is half on the sofa, half draped over him. He pulls the blanket from the back of the sofa down and over them, still smiling, still content. _Happy,_ he thinks and realizes the truth of it.

His life is about to change, but life changes every single day; just most times the changes don't get noticed until later. Five years ago he would never have predicted he'd land back at the BAU or solve the Galen case. Two years ago he would have been able to say he was attracted to Emily Prentiss, but he wouldn't have predicted she'd take him to bed or that he'd fall completely in love with her or agree to have a baby with her. He's fifty-five years old, and his life suddenly feels like it's just beginning.

Looking down, he sees Emily has fallen asleep on him. They haven't had dinner, and he's not up for spending the whole night on the couch, but she's still recovering and a little nap won't hurt. He's not sure he's caught up on his rest yet, either; he lets himself relax, lets himself drift, and sleeps.

Fin


End file.
